


Step By Step

by mmmelmoth



Series: Guilt-ridden past-Battle-of-Hogwarts stories [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, PTSD, Past War, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, a bit depressing but the end is hopeful, past Fred Weasley/Angelina Johnson, past the Battle Of Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-26 15:53:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9910112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmmelmoth/pseuds/mmmelmoth





	

Strolling through Diagon Alley hasn't been the same since the war. The shops are deserted, windows shattered, the streets are empty. It looks the same it did back when houses where being pillaged by Death-Eaters, only that now the unfulfilled promise of a returning everyday-life looms over it. People could be redecorating. People even should be starting to fix everything - but no one noticing this would dare to speak up about all of the Wizarding World being trapped in inactivity.

There's just so much pain lingering everywhere, the air is thick with it. I can barely breathe. My feet wade through the ash and debris, kicking aside memories as I walk on.

 _Ollivander's_. Where I and everyone I knew bought their wands. A few steps downwards, there's _Quality Quidditch Supplies_. Which used to be my favourite shop, it's where I first found out how much I loved flying. Its insides lie in splinters, there is nothing whole left. And right next to _Gringotts'_ \- which has been shut down since two weeks ago - ... _Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes_. The knot in my throat grows larger. I might actually cry. Ridiculous, isn't it? There's death and loss everywhere and yet it's this supposed place of joy that makes my eyes misty with tears.

The wind howls into my face like the wailing scream I'm too stunned to utter, like the slap to the head I've been longing for to gain back my conscience. As if I'm being pulled forwards, I hesitantly place my hand on the faded orange column near the broken entrance. I stifle a sob and flinch as a person sitting in the ruins next to it moves slightly. Am I seeing ghosts? "...F-Fred?" My voice is smaller than it's ever been and it feels like I haven't spoken in ages. 

"Nah, it's just me." But his voice, his face... My cheeks flush with late realisation. How stupid of me. "I'm - I'm sorry." "Don't bother. I think the same every time I look into the mirror." George's gaze wanders off into the distance. I catch a look though the cracked window into the former joke shop. Dusty piles of boxes have been knocked over and the furniture is scattered. "Can I sit with you?" And even though my words quiver heavily, he turns his read head up at me and points at the fragments of fallen buildings that coat the ground. "Be my guest."

As I step into the leftover buildings' protecting arms and settle down, the breeze disappeared - warded off by the heavy ruins - and all that remains is silence. "It's calm out here." I note, unable to look at his numbed expression. By calm I mean crushingly depressing, lonely and cold. "That's why both of us came out here, innit?" Just like me, George is staring straight ahead with glazed eyes. "Doesn't your family miss you?" The few times I visited the Weasleys' Barrow stick to my memory as if jinxed on with an adhesion charm, pictures of a hearty family that's wholly in league with one another jump to my mind. But George shakes his head. "They wouldn't admit it, but of course they can't stand the sight of me. I'm the precise reflection of what we all lost." He inhales sharply, "Even I can't stand the sight of me."

"George -..." I try to catch his eye, try to think of any way possible of comforting him, but he keeps kneading his pale hands in his lap until he goes on: "I see him in everything I do, even... even in the way I think. We were _identical_ , how am I-" His voice breaks and he shakes his head again. "How am I supposed to move forwards?" And I look at the shattered man who devoted his entire life to spreading laughter. When I finally reply, my voice is fainter than ever before. A shocking contrast to yelling around on the Quidditch pitch. "You don't have to move forwards right now. Just take the time necessary to heal- " "I'm not healing."He blurts out.

"Well, it's only been so long." "No, I know I'm not getting better in any way. I can't even bring myself to walk through that door frame -" He makes a swooshing movement towards _Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes,_ "- I can't do the easiest spells, and trust me, I've tried..." "George."

"It's been _four days_ since the last time I laughed!" 

The words he thrust into the air hang between us like a thick curtain. I try to swallow the constricted feeling in my throat. "What did you laugh about, then? Four days ago?" "I stubbed my toe on a table." "...Why would that make you laugh?" "I don't know. Right afterwards I cried, though. Not because of the toe, but because-" "I know." I interrupt him gently. For the first time during this conversation, he looks up at me from his hunched position. "Don't you have anything else to do, Angelina?" "Do you suppose I would've been walking around here if that was the case?" "I suppose not." 

Simultaneously, both of us shrug. I give a weak attempt of a smile. "Merlin's Beard, look at us. Weren't we just only a couple of kids playing Quidditch?" George asks feebly. "Yeah, we were." And just now, I notice that there's the slightest bit of a breeze even here between the ruins. Suddenly, the silence between us no longer seems grave and narrowing. "You loved Fred too, didn't you?" This is the first time George has actually uttered his brother's name out loud. "We only went out in sixth Year." "But you did." Instead of telling him how my pain is nothing next to his, I go "Yes." because that's what he needs to hear and that's the truth. Our gazes wander off along the destroyed buildings that line Diagon Alley. Every burnt out window means a wizard family in pieces, and broken glass is covering the entire lane. This single road stands for such an uncountable amount of pain, an insane lot of agony without prospects of an antidote...

"How are we ever going to fix this mess?" George's voice is shaky and his eyes are clouded like mine. And I take his hand. Not in a romantic gesture, but in a stabilising way. Slowly, like there's a burden twice as heavy as a fallen castle on our shoulders, we get up. 

Step by step, we walk towards the large orange entry portal, fingers intertwined with the promise _We are not alone_. 

It doesn't matter whether he meant his question literally or figuratively, because the answer is the same to both: Slowly, and step by step.


End file.
